


boys and their toys (and their six inch rockets)

by LadySpearWife



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Making Out, Non-Graphic Smut, post-monza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 02:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20593169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySpearWife/pseuds/LadySpearWife
Summary: Charles is a humble, sweet kid, you try to remember. And yet, it's hard to convince yourself this probably configures as at least unbalanced.





	boys and their toys (and their six inch rockets)

Charles is a humble, sweet _kid_, you try to remember.

But this same humble, sweet kid has a spine of steel and is willing to bleed on track for a victory. All for all. Morality is a fluid concept when success is so close. It’s hard to convince yourself this probably configures as _at least_ unbalanced when you can recall how he battled, the fire in his eyes, his raw speed. It’s hard to care about all the trouble that comes with a twenty-one-year-old pilot wanting you this obviously.

He looks to you with those damning eyes of his, just as unrelenting as always, but brighter, wilder, harder. You could drown in the post-race adrenaline that radiates from him. Charles doesn’t look drunk, reeking of podium champagne and nothing else, but there’re other ways to get intoxicated. He probably isn’t even thinking – you gave him a challenge on track, made him race rough, and you know he wants more. It’d be a lie to say that this particular scenario hasn’t haunted you a little, though.

How could anyone resist the allure of a golden, martyrized boy with such a hunger for success? You remember Bahrain, his restrained disappoint and how he made everyone eat dust until the fairytale was dismantled. In Melbourne, he’d been another body slipping into those red overalls, and one race later you’d felt it click in place. You’d seen him. And after you saw Charles, it was impossible to stop staring. Some claim it’s fishing for praise, empty glorifying, and you wish it was. You _wish_ this was a stunt.

Because, if it were, when he lowers his gaze to your mouth, ethereal with those long lashes and soft face, and licks his own lips, you would be able to not kiss him. If it were, you’d not grab his slender waist and pull him against you and kiss the familiar taste of champagne from his eager tongue. If it were, you wouldn’t want this so much.

He groans against your mouth and presses even harder, nails digging into your neck to push harder. It’s _Charles_ all over, dreamy and soft and innocently boyish until his blood boiled and he found himself wanting more. You love it. As much as the challenge annoys you, as much not being able to catch him because less than a second annoys you, this is different. And it’s better. You want him wild. You want him so much.

Charles is _very_ aware of this.

He breaks the kiss too soon, but he’s breathing hard anyway, clinging to you, making you feel every inch of his body. Fireproofs may hide little – you’re just a little ashamed to say that you’ve stared a lot over the months, fuck the decade you have on him –, but this is something else; it’s the outline of his cock against your thigh and his chest against yours and his mouth just there. It’s just too good to say no.

There’s something dangerous about seeing him like this, red-faced and wild, looking feverish because of one kiss. The illusion of the perfect golden boy is shattered, and you’re as drunk on having Ferrari’s little prince like this because of you as he’s on his victory. You press a kiss against his fluttering pulse, and Charles throws his head back, lets his eyes close, clings to you harder. You keep going, biting hard. Feeling it quicken under your tongue brings forth a wave of satisfaction and a chuckle.

For all his fire, all his guts to slide into Mercedes garage in Ferrari crimson and crowd you against a wall and demand without words, he lets you do whatever you want, go as rough as you want. There’s saliva running down his neck, a red mark standing proud on his pale skin, he’s gasping, and you feel an odd rush of possessiveness.

Unkind rumors come and go, about Verstappen and Gasly and even _Vettel_, for fuck’s sakes, but Charles is here now. He’s melting against _you_, grinding against _your_ thigh, sighing as _you_ kiss his jaw. It’s been fated since Bahrain, since his strained smile for your praise and the way he shivered under your touch. He’d looked strikingly like he was twenty-one then, still does now, but you drown these thoughts. He’s staring you with this Prince Charming face, smirking slightly, and it reeks of mischief.

“Can you keep up?” He teases, hands going under your shirt to trace your back.

“Don’t get cocky,” you half snarl, biting down on his shoulder hard. Charles moans, high-pitched and surprised. You’ve never built in yourself to be challenged or a good loser, even when it comes with the additional of a pretty face.

And yet, he looks pleasantly dazed when he traces the zipper of your jeans, almost innocent if not for the smirk and for deliberately touching your dick. “I _could_ discover.”

“Yeah,” you say, guiding his hands to undo the button, “you could.”

**Author's Note:**

> i have zero explanation for this except that lewis sure compliments charles a lot
> 
> hope you liked this tho!!!


End file.
